Comanche Moon (16 page)

His proximity was almost like a physical blow; his body radiated raw power, masculinity and hostility, and it took every ounce of determination she possessed to keep from attempting mad flight.

For a moment, Hawk stared at her without reacting. Then, before she could move, his hand flashed out to grasp her by one arm. She pulled back, her arm uplifted and between them as she stared at him defiantly, half-daring him to hurt her, half-pleading with him not to. Her heart thudded painfully against her rib cage, and the tightness in her throat seemed to be squeezing it shut. Slowly, relentlessly, with the hot sun beating down and the wind whispering around them, Hawk drew her to him and held her against his hard body. Deborah could see the rich black flecks in the pitiless blue of his eyes, could distinguish each spiky eyelash. His gaze held her mesmerized; she noted distractedly the faint scars that creased his eyebrow, his cheek, his jawline. She could smell him, smell the musky male scent of him mixed with a hint of tobacco and leather and wind and sun, all combined to throw her senses into disorder.

And, suddenly, she was afraid, terribly afraid. Of him. Of herself. Of all that had brought them to this moment, at this time and place. Death wasn’t what she feared, but the searing knowledge of her desire for this man, this hard-faced Comanche who swung from gentleness to brutality as quickly as the wind shifted. It was an inexplicable emotion that left her feeling somehow ashamed of her weakness. But God help her, all she could think of when he held her so close to him was how he’d kissed her and touched her and made her body ache for him in ways she’d never dreamed.

Anger fled, and the terrible weakness remained. Time ceased to exist; only the heat from the sun and his touch filled her now. Dry grasses rustled around them, and his horse stamped its hooves impatiently. Hawk’s fingers still cut deeply into the fragile bones of her wrists, and his mouth was a straight, taut line in his face.

Without warning, his arm flexed, and he lifted her effortlessly into his arms and tossed her atop his horse. Vaulting up behind her, he reached around her for the reins as the horse started off at a brisk trot. Deborah didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

It was obvious he’d come to some kind of decision about her, and she wondered what he meant to do as they caught up with the others.

Nothing was said, no explanation or even a threat as the small band rode hard and fast over the plains and back up into the mountains. The only stops were brief pauses to water and rest the horses, and Deborah and Judith were not allowed close to one another.

It took the Comanche only eight hours to travel the distance it had taken Deborah and Judith three days to cover. At times they traveled in a wide circle, it seemed, as if trying to cover their tracks. They crossed and recrossed their trail several times. Deborah’s brief hope that the soldiers would be able to follow them began to fade.

Most of the time, Hawk sat stiffly behind her, his arm coiled around her so tightly that her least movement or struggle cut off her breath. She quickly learned that he felt no compunctions in restricting her breathing, and did not offer more than that first, cursory resistance.

As the familiar valley came into view again, and the line of men rode down at a swift pace, the setting sun diffused the jagged peaks of the mountains in a blaze of crimson and deep purple. Night insects had begun their song in the tall grasses, and the rush of the mountain stream grew louder and louder.

Slowly, the weary horses stirred up dust as they rode into the village, threading between the tipis to the growing curiosity of the residents.

Deborah saw flaps thrown back, heard hushed voices reporting of their arrival. At the far end, she saw Hawk’s lodge, and fastened her gaze on it.

This arrival was different from the last, when the women and children had rushed out in excitement to greet the homecoming raiders. This time, solemn faces stared up as they passed through the staggered lines of tipis.

Deborah knew that the punishment for escape would be severe, and she prayed for the courage to face it.

Someone asked Hawk a question as they passed, and his snarling reply made Deborah shudder. There was nothing in his tone to indicate leniency.

Sunflower awaited them in front of her father’s lodge, her huge liquid eyes filled with anxiety. She called out as they approached,
“Ahó, samohpu.”
Her words were hopeful, but cautious.

Hawk replied in a growl and did not stop there but rode past to his own lodge, where he swung down from his horse and pulled Deborah with him.

She stumbled and half-fell, and the quick arm he put around her waist was less than gentle.

“Tahkamuru,”
he muttered in a savage tone that made her throat close with apprehension. His meaning was clear, and she could feel Sunflower’s anxious gaze on her. Deborah did not dare move while he tied his stallion to a sapling by his lodge. She waited quietly, and when he turned back to her, she met his cold gaze steadily.

He grunted something she didn’t hear, grasped her by the arm, and shoved her ahead of him into his tipi. With a quick motion, he lowered the flap and tied it. No one would dare enter a man’s lodge when the flap was lowered.

As soon as he released her wrist, Deborah took several steps away from him, her eyes fixed on his implacable features. She inhaled deeply, hoping he would understand some of what she said.

“This escape—
kuaru
—was my idea.
Nue.
Uh, no
—nu.”
She tried to remember the proper inflections to convey her meaning to him, the right words that would convince him it had all been her idea and not Judith’s. The Comanche words would not come, the few she had learned eluding her as she faced him. In a stumbling, halting monologue, Deborah did her best to save  her cousin from enduring harsh retribution.

“Hawk—Tosa Nakaai—please . . .
keta tsahhuhyaru . . .
this was all my fault. Don’t . . . don’t hurt her—” Her voice broke off abruptly when he made a sharp, impatient sound, and his brows dipped low in a scowl over his eyes. Grabbing her wrist when she began to back away at his fierce expression, Hawk’s voice was low and rasping.

“Subetu—
it is finished, Deborah. You had best plead for yourself instead of your cousin.”

Deborah blinked. She stared up at the lustrous velvet of his indigo eyes, the mocking line of his mouth, the primitive masculine beauty of his face. His harsh words made perfect sense, and it took her a moment to realize why.

He’d spoken English!

She went hot, then cold, then hot again, her face suffusing with color.

“You speak English.”

“Haa—
yes. And Comanche, and Spanish, and a bit of Apache and Cheyenne as well as Shoshone.” Silky filaments of raven hair swung with the motion of his shaking head. “You have a good grasp of the obvious.” His sneering contempt lashed at her. Deborah’s fear for herself and her cousin vanished in a sweep of hot rage. Her small hand curled into a fist, and she saw that he noticed the involuntary reaction. A hard smile slanted his mouth, and he tightened his grip on her wrist.

“Just so you aren’t tempted to slap me again,” he said softly.

The tension of the past weeks erupted unexpectedly. All her silent admonitions to remain calm evaporated as if never existing. Deborah uttered a shrill scream of rage and launched herself at him, hitting his broad, impervious chest with a solitary fist, scratching him before he could capture her free hand. She kicked, and she bit, and she sobbed every vile name she could think of when he wrestled her to the ground and held her down until she was exhausted. Then he hauled her to her feet again, and Deborah saw that he wasn’t even slightly winded by her assault.

“Damn you,” she breathed, and saw his brow lift.

“Swearing, Deborah? A proper lady like yourself?”

“I suppose it’s the company I’ve been forced to keep lately.”

“So you’d like to think, I’m sure.” She stared at him, a hundred questions crowding her mind. The first one to erupt was, “Who are you?”

“Tosa Nakaai. Hawk. A hunter. A Comanche.”

“No, I mean really.” She shook her head. “You’re one of them, the Comanche, yet . . . yet you aren’t.”

“You’re very observant.” He released her wrist with an abrupt motion, giving her a slight shove away from him. “No, I am not full-blooded Comanche, but I thought you’d have guessed that by my eyes. You remarked on it that first day, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. I just thought perhaps you were really one of them.”

“No.” His voice was bitter, and he began to pace around the small space in quick, restless steps. “I’m not one of anybody. I’m not Comanche, and I’m not white. I’m what’s known as a half-breed, and to most people, that’s less than human.”

Bewildered, both by his bitterness and her own churning emotions, Deborah rubbed idly at her wrist.

“Then why are you here?” He turned, flashing her a grim smile. “Because it’s the closest thing to home I have. Or had.”

“Had?”

“Do you think those soldiers will forget about seeing you? No. And when they manage to follow, they won’t stop to ask questions. They’ve been known to kill anything that moves when they ride into an Indian camp.”

“I don’t believe that. Not—” She stopped, flushing, and he gave her a sardonic look.

“Not white men? Think again. Comanche aren’t the only ones who can be ruthless.”

“It’s hard to convince me of that when I’ve been your slave for almost two months.”

“Have you been mistreated? Beaten? Starved? Raped?” Deborah’s flush deepened, and her chin quivered slightly at his steady regard. “No. Terrorized, though. And no one has a right to enslave another.”

“If I’m not mistaken, there was a recent war fought over that little fact, right?” Hawk mocked. “And it was between white men.” Her chin tilted higher. “Yes, that’s true, but—”

“But you’re saying that’s different. Why? Because no Indians were involved? Or because
you
weren’t involved.”

“I was involved. Indirectly, perhaps, but my family suffered during the war.” “Suffered? How badly? List your hurts for me, Deborah. I’m interested in hearing them.”

Angry, she snapped, “None of this is the issue! You played a horrible trick on me. All this time, you could have spoken to me in a language I understand and made life easier. Yet you chose not to. And since you’re half-white, you could have taken me back, released me. If you’re part of this village, you could have explained it somehow. After all, you traded for me.

You could have done anything you wanted with me.” He looked at her, and his eyes changed, a subtle shift of color and intensity that made her throat close and her pulses race with apprehension.

“Yes,” he said softly, “I could have done anything I wanted with you.

And almost did. But I still haven’t done what I want most. Until now.”

“Un . . . until now?” Deborah hated the way her voice came out in a squeak, but there was something so suddenly intense about him, so threatening, that she could barely force the words out. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, reaching out with a leisurely hand to cup her chin,

“that I’m going to finish what I started. What I should have done that first day. All this waiting has been for nothing, because I can’t risk everyone’s lives for my own hunger.” His hand fell away. “I’m not waiting any longer. I intend to make you mine.”

“No,” she said in a choked whisper, “no.”

“Yes.”

Deborah couldn’t move. There was quiet determination that convinced her it would do no good to struggle. Her gaze moved briefly over his slick, naked torso, the smooth muscles and hard bands delineating his chest, rib cage, and belly. She stared, mesmerized, feeling a heated jolt spear through her, then lifted her gaze to his face.

Paralyzed with fear and apprehension, Deborah saw no hint of compassion or mercy in that stark, emotionless visage that gazed back at her.

Instead, she saw the end of his waiting in his eyes.

Chapter 12

“Kwabitu,”
he said softly. “Lie down.” Her daze shattered. Shaking her head, russet strands whipping across her face, she backed away. “No. I won’t.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Hawk said coolly. “You can make this easy, or make it hard. That is your only option. I have said I will have you, and I will.” He reached out to lift a strand of her hair, threading it between his fingers. “I know you are a virgin. I will be gentle.”

“Gentle!” Her eyes were huge and golden, catching the reflected gleam from the low fire in the center of the tipi. “I am supposed to believe that you won’t hurt me? You? A man who has treated me as a . . . a possession since I first saw you? This is what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?” His hand fell away. “Of course. Did you think differently? This wanting is what lures men to women, what makes them take risks to have them. I’ve made no secret of that fact.” His broad shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I thought once that you might come to me willingly. That is why I waited, why I was patient. Now, my patience and my time have run out.”

“Patience! I’ve been your prisoner for less than two months, yet you expect me to . . . to just lie down with you.”

“Yes.”

Panic flickered in her eyes, and Hawk knew that he must act swiftly before she did something impulsive. Maybe he should just let her go without this, but he couldn’t. He’d waited too long, desired her for too long not to take her. She was a constant ache for him.

His hands flashed out to grab her just as she turned, caught her toe in the rumpled buffalo robe at her feet and began to fall. He let his weight act as an ally, carrying her with him to fall full-length on the cushioning robe.

Hawk half-turned, taking the brunt of the fall on his shoulder and hip.

Deborah began to struggle as soon as they hit the robes, her desperate battle making her arch and cry out.

“Screaming won’t help you,” Hawk warned, “but it will upset my sister.

And let everyone else in camp know what we are doing in here.” Deborah grew still, as he’d hoped she might. Her eyes flashed furiously up at him, and Hawk felt a surge of regret. She would hate him for this. Even though he’d seen the longing in her eyes, seen a baffled hunger that she would not admit, she would never forgive him if he took her unwillingly.